


The Blood of Talos

by notyourparadigm



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, One-Shot, Talos worship, Vampirism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26030650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourparadigm/pseuds/notyourparadigm
Summary: A Nord awakes in Riften to a fate feared by all in Tamriel. Faith gives him strength amidst the confusion, but perhaps not the strength he needs.
Kudos: 8





	The Blood of Talos

Why did he think sleeping would help? 

He should have learned by now that sleeping was the accelerator of all this. If only he had dragged himself to a temple instead of collapsing in bed, if only he had paid more attention to the thirst in his throat instead of the bruises and broken bones. Maybe then, he might not have awakened three days later feeling more dead than alive.

He should have known. He knew what he had been fighting. Perhaps he just subconsciously denied it, hoping that it wouldn’t become real until he acknowledged it. He fooled himself into believing he could sate the thirst with ale, but even as he had collapsed onto his rented bed with all the wit and grace of a three-legged skeever, still he found his mouth dry, fingers scratching at his throat, tormented by the craving that nothing seemed to quench. 

Of course he awoke even worse than the night before. Keevara gave him a low hiss of disapproval as he finally came down from his room, reminding him that she tried to cut him off several times last night, and he had no one to blame but himself for his miserable state. He had half a mind to explain that he wasn’t hungover, just thirsty— so damned thirsty— but his denial of his situation would not make him free from suspicion. He should have been hungover out of his mind, and yet all he felt was the sharp, nail-like pains of thirst in his chest. And being drunk had done nothing to numb it.

Keerava bid him to return once the Gods had given him back his senses, and warned him to mind himself on the walkways, lest he find Riften’s putrid canals to bring him to the Gods directly. It was late afternoon already— he must have slept enough to even make Sanguine proud. Yet even through the clouds and overcast, he still felt it. The feeling grew in him like pain from a poison-tipped blade, gnawing at his veins, burning his muscles. It was enough to make him wince as he felt the first lashing of sunlight slice through the wooden buildings and walkways, burrowing into his skin. The low din of footsteps and chatter in the Riften market seemed all but muted, as if a lifetime away, overpowered by a shrill ringing in his ears as his body recoiled from the shock.

It was not unlike first stepping outside after many lost hours in the darkness of a Falmer cavern, but only if the light were also capable of biting beneath his skin, uncountable tiny teeth digging into his muscles. Fortunately, as his eyes adjusted to the blinding glare, his body too adjusted to the discomfort. He could soon hear the banging of Balimund’s hammer and anvil, Brynjolf still trying to get some gullible fool to buy his newest elixr, and several other voices all piling atop one another. That was normal, at least. 

Yet there was something else there, too. As Mjoll and Aerin walked by, he heard more than just a pair of footfalls. There was another rhythm, strong, pulsating, deafening, and disappearing as they headed for the main gate. For no other reason than to avoid them, he turned to take the long way around the market. At least walking was still easy enough, despite everything. Divines help him if he were to collapse in the street, undoubtedly producing a crowd—

“Are you feeling alright?” Asked one of the guards in passing. Perhaps just as a courtesy, or perhaps the stench of ale was still strong on his breath, as she did not bother to wait for a reply before continuing her patrol, her heavy beating thrums leaving with her. Had his sanity left him, too? Why was his mind twisting against itself, trying to make sense of the new feelings? It was more overwhelming, suffocating— now he couldn’t ignore it. Brynjolf, Madesi, Brand-Shei, Grelka, Balimund— his eyes darted from one to the next, to the next, and back again, and they all had it. They all thrummed with life, hearty pulses of blood in their veins, warm and fresh just under that skin…

Arkay help him. 

His body was craving it so badly. He needed to do something; he was far too close to just grabbing the next person who passed by, and be done with it. And then all of Riften would know what he was— Fort Dawngard was basically in their backyard, so he wouldn’t need to wait long to meet his fate. A quick decapitation would be all it took.

He needed out. He needed to get away— get away from the people, from the noise— and by the Nine, he needed to  _ drink  _ before he went mad.

He moved to quicken his pace, but felt the swell of pain in his muscles as he did so, even his lungs struggling against the sun’s suffocating force. For a moment, he considered taking refuge in the Temple of Mara— the acolytes there were few enough, and lightly armed if armed at all— and Mara was supposed to love indiscriminately, right? Perhaps it wasn’t too late, and he could pray to Mara to cure him of his affliction, beg for the restoration of who he once was. Yet he could not bring himself to climb the stairs. His mind feared what the Divines would do to one who would dare desecrate the ground of one of their temples with the presence of the damned. He was already an affront to them— if there was any hope of mercy, he needed their support, not their wrath. 

It must have looked as if he had gone mad, the way he walked so determined to the base of the temple, only to turn abruptly veering instead into the path towards the back of the town. He just had to get away, clear his head, do… do  _ something _ … 

But the thrumming was still there. Nearby. Isolated and crisp in his ears. Without the others overlapping with each other, he could more clearly hear the rhythm, feel the pulse, and all but see the heart beating in his mind. He could not help but follow it to its owner, greeting Nura Snow-Shod with a silent nod in front of the Shrine of Talos.

“Blessings of Talos upon you,” she said, not turning away from the shrine, arms still raised towards the statue. She did, however, smile upon the sight of the amulet of Talos around his neck, nodding to it in approval. “It is always good to see a true son of Skyrim, those who do not fear in their worship, no matter what the Empire says.”

His hand found the amulet, and for a moment he felt the strength of Talos she blessed upon him, and with it, the strength to shrug away the urges and dull the beating in his ears. He was a Nord, a true Son of Skyrim— the blood of Talos was in his veins. He could overcome this. He had the strength to get through this.

“Approach the shrine, and let us ask for His strength and guidance.” She thrummed beneath her words, but he strained against its tantalizing call. He kept his eyes on the statue. The serpent under Talos’ foot was craning up against Him, unwilling to yield even in defeat.

“Mighty Talos, He who ascended, both man and divine, hear our praise as we seek the grace of your strength and will!”

The beast’s fangs bared at face and steel, yet Talos seemed to not even acknowledge it as a threat. Instead, His gaze remained upon His worshippers: stoic, wise, and unrelenting. The threat did not exist, in his eyes. He need only lower his blade into the scaly hide below, and the beast would be dead.

“...for we of the North, shaped in snows and winds of winter, as a blade shaped in the heat and flames of the forge, in Your likeness and of Your blood…”

He had the blood of Talos, as did Nura. He could feel the power it gave him, and hear it moving in her body, waves passing to and from her heart, up and down, back and forth, giving her arms the strength to pray, her throat the words to speak, her fine, smooth neck straining and relaxing as she preached.

“...and we do humbly accept Your blessings, such that we may serve You, in peace and in battle, in weakness and strength, in life and death.”

It was as if a great weight was lifted from his shoulders as he accepted the blessing. Strength filled his arms, overpowering the burning that seeped from his veins. No longer was there confusion and struggle. Focus steadied his nerves and filled him with resolution. 

“Let me know if there is anything more I can do for you, brother.” Nura finally lowered her arms. Her mind was at peace, too. Her pulse was slow and calm, happy, eager to help him. He did need something from her. Talos gave him the strength to do it. Just as Talos tamed the fanged beast beneath Him, he would conquer the need, the power— the thirst would be quenched. She was His priestess. She was His gift, His blessing. 

The look of bewilderment in her eyes only lasted a moment. She relaxed into his touch so easily. He only needed to raise a hand to her warm cheek, have her feel his desire and need, and she yielded to him, eyes glazing over, smiling sweetly, unable to say a word.

Her aroma filled his nostrils as he drew her towards his lips. Her neck was soft as doeskin, and tasted faintly of the warm goodness that lay beneath. A taste was all he could manage before he sunk his fangs in, shivering with excitement as her body jolted in his grasp. The blood ran quickly and eagerly, slipping between his teeth and lips. He drank greedily, and still a warm stream found its way down his chin. It was as if he was drinking from life itself. The warmth spread from his lips to his stomach, settling the maddening ache that tore at him. His skin began to tingle, the pain from the sunlight numbed by his new elixir. Slowly, he felt his thoughts return, too. His name, his memories, his purpose.

All the while, he gazed upon the face of the mighty Talos, and Talos stared back. Talos stared at him encouragingly, approvingly, pridefully as he took Nura’s neck into his mouth. 

Talos stared silently, blankly, emotionless as he drank of her blood, feeling the thirst in his chest finally die under his eternal gaze. 

Then, Talos continued to stare, as he continued to feed, even as the blood began to turn bitter on his tongue. Talos stared. Watched. Witnessed. Judged. 

And his judgement was ever unblinking.

Nura was limp in his arms, unconscious, neck and robes stained with that which he let slip from his lips. He felt a cry begin to form in his throat, but found himself without a voice to let it out. Where once he found strength, now he found weakness and fear. His arms trembled, struggling to keep Nura upright. He had no choice but to let her fall to the ground. 

Attempting to wipe the blood from his hands onto her robes only made a larger mess, skin stained pink with the evidence. He had to get to a river, or stream— he had to clean it off, pretend it never happened. He could hide, run away, never see someone again. The townspeople would forget in time, surely. Nobody would remember. Nobody had to know.

He would have asked for Talos to help him, but he knew. He had forsaken Talos, and now the gods had forsaken him.


End file.
